


faster than a heartbeat

by seimaisin



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 07:32:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seimaisin/pseuds/seimaisin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clandestine Station is the end of nowhere - a mining station located on a remote ice planet, far away from any other populated system, with no breathable oxygen and very little contact with the rest of the galaxy. In short, it's Patrick's worst nightmare ... and he's just been assigned to work there.</p><p>When he arrives, however, he finds the station populated by a surprisingly cheerful bunch of people, all of whom welcome him with open arms. Patrick fits in better than he ever expected, thanks in large part to Pete, Clandestine's de facto manager. Patrick just might have a raging crush on his new boss, not that he intends to tell him about it.</p><p>Eventually, though, Patrick gets exactly what he wanted: a transfer to a far more civilized planet. Only ... he's not entirely sure he wants it any more. When a disastrous storm strikes Clandestine, Patrick is forced to confront his deepest fears and decide once and for all - does he want to go home, or is he already there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	faster than a heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bandom Big Bang 2011. As always, much love to L for support and beta duties.
> 
> Title from The Alternate Routes' "Carry Me Home."

"Now arriving at Omega 16. Please remain seated until we have cleared the atmospheric barrier. All passengers will need to check out on the screen at the front of the public chamber prior to departing the ship. Please press your call button if you require any assistance." The ship's computer had a soothing voice, built to appease a cabin full of passengers on cross-galaxy flights.

Patrick looked around at the chamber, empty except for him. Omega 16 wasn't much of a tourist destination. Or any kind of destination, really.

For a split second, it felt like the ship had dropped into free fall; Patrick's stomach lurched, and he grabbed the arm of his seat. Then the ship stabilized, and the haze outside the window next to him cleared to reveal a blinding white light. Patrick winced. When the light resolved itself into something viewable by the naked eye, Patrick leaned forward and stared out at the planet below. It was white - white as far as the eye could see. Patrick could make out mountains in the distance, and as they sailed closer to the ground, he saw saw patches of gray and blue vegetation dotting the landscape. The plants were, he knew from his reading, the only living thing native to this planet. Otherwise, the atmosphere was entirely toxic. However, the mountains contained deep reserves of the nearly indestructible metal that the Company used to build cargo ships and military vessels. Thus, the existence of the mining station known as Clandestine.

Patrick realized that one of the small dots he'd assumed was another patch of plant life was actually a building. It grew larger as they got closer, but compared to the stations Patrick had previously worked on, it seemed to be the size of a doll house. The dock next to the building could only house one ship at a time. The whole structure was dwarfed by the eight giant storage silos that surrounded it. A land vehicle drove toward one of the silos, pulling a transport full of ore from one of the corresponding drills that must be somewhere. Yes, there it was - he could see a trio of smaller buildings behind the silo in the distance. Patrick had worked on a mining station straight out of training - there, remote controlled bots had driven the product to the silo, then transferred the ore to the holding bins that cargo ships would eventually pick up. This transport, however, was a medium-sized human-operated one; Patrick just hoped that there was some kind of bot inside the silo to help move the half ton of product that the person seemed to be pulling.

Patrick watched the building get larger until most of it was obscured by the steel frame of the ship's dock. He felt a dull thud underneath his seat; as soon as the computer chimed the signal of a safe landing, he bolted from his seat and grabbed his bag. He had a larger trunk, but it was stowed away in the cargo hold. There would probably be a courtesy bot around to carry the trunk to Patrick's new home, somewhere inside the station. Home, Patrick thought, swallowing a lump in his throat.

The pilot met him in the airlock entrance. He handed Patrick a portable breathing apparatus. "You'll need this," he said. "There's no atmosphere between here and the building."

"What?" Patrick stared at him. "Their dock has no oxygen?"

"I gather they don't have the budget for it. They probably don't get many visitors."

"I guess not." Patrick stared at the breathing device with more than a little apprehension. "It's been a while since I had to use one of these ..."

"Here, want me to secure it?"

Patrick nodded gratefully, and allowed the pilot to wrap the coiled tubing loosely around his neck. He fastened a small mechanical box to Patrick's jacket - a device that would generate enough breathable oxygen to allow him to walk a short distance. A _very_ short distance, Patrick hoped. He made himself take several slow, deep breaths before he placed the mask over his mouth. Once the air started flowing, his breaths got more shallow. _Breathe, Stump_ , he told himself. He wasn't going to suffocate before starting a new job. Not even if he hated everything about the assignment.

He straightened his shoulders and followed the pilot out the door. For better or worse, Patrick was now a resident of Clandestine Station.

 

When he reported to his new supervisor's office, Patrick didn't exactly expect to get hit in the head.

Luckily, the offending projectile was a soft cloth ball, and hadn't been thrown with great force. But still, he was startled enough to stumble backwards a step and drop his bag. When he bent down to pick the ball up, a voice greeted him from somewhere around the half wall at the opposite side of the office. "Hey, sorry about that! Thought you were someone else!"

Patrick tossed the ball onto the desk. "Who?"

"Gabe. But if you'd been Gabe, my aim would have been way off ..." The voice rounded the corner, and turned out to be attached to a guy with black hair and inked skin on his forearms. He was dressed in a maintenance jumpsuit with the sleeves rolled up. "And since you're not Gabe, I guess you don't care that I can't find the stupid parts manifest for the coolant engine."

"Not really?" Patrick looked around the office. "I'm looking for the supervisor ..."

"You found him." The man stuck out his hand. "Pete Wentz. You must be the new communications tech."

"You're ..." When Pete flashed him a giant, white-toothed smile, Patrick swallowed his initial reaction and started over. "Yeah. I'm Patrick. Nice to meet you."

"No, it's not," Pete said cheerfully. "You don't want to be here. Nobody does. You're just here because you managed to piss someone off somewhere out there in the civilized part of the universe."

"Actually, I just ..."

Pete waved his hand, interrupting Patrick's protest. "I know, you didn't do anything, you don't deserve to be here, someone just has it in for you, blah blah, whatever. We've all got a story like that. Point is, welcome to Clandestine Station, the island of misfit toys." When Patrick continued to stare at him blankly, Pete rolled his eyes. "Nobody knows anything about the golden age of Earth any more, it's sad."

"Um, okay." Patrick waited, but Pete just stared at him, that same stupid grin on his face. Patrick felt his face grow red. "Can I, I don't know, get directions to my quarters or something?"

"Oh, yeah, sure." Pete reached across the desk and picked up a small white access card. "This'll get you in. You're down on the fourth level, the number's on the card. If you want to know your shift schedule, don't ask me, Spencer's better at keeping track of those things. Good luck, I've gotta go figure out how to plug a leak in the coolant engine."

Patrick took the card from Pete as he passed by. Pete squeezed past him in the doorway. Patrick felt a jolt as Pete's hips brushed against his; he blamed it on the fact that he hadn't slept in the shuttle on the way here, and had thus been awake for nearly 30 hours straight. That might also explain his confusion ... "Wait, aren't there maintenance people who take care of that sort of thing?"

Pete laughed, a loud bark that made Patrick's head hurt. "No maintenance person has pissed anyone off that much lately. We're on our own out here, Pattycakes." Pete clapped him on the shoulder and walked off before Patrick could protest the nickname.

 

Spencer turned out not only to be the station's second-in-command ("Well, as far as we have any kind of rank," Spencer admitted. "Pete's in charge because he was here first. I'm in charge because I'm the only one who bothers to write anything down."), but also Patrick's neighbor. "That cabin's been empty since I've been here,' Spencer said, watching Patrick unpack his bags from the door. "People have used it from time to time, but don't worry, I made Brendon scrub the floors and wash all the bedding before you got here."

"Do I want to know?"

"Probably not." Spencer grinned. Patrick, to his surprise, found himself grinning back.

He met Brendon when he showed up in the west control room for his first shift the next day. He surrendered his seat at the comm station to Patrick with a theatrical flourish. "Treat her well. She's a sensitive lady today." When Patrick raised his eyebrows, he clarified, "The connection to the control room at Drill 7 keeps cutting in and out. Frank and Pete are out there collecting this week's data from the drill's internal computer. Poke them every five minutes; if they miss three check-ins in a row, we'll have to send someone out there to get them."

The Clandestine control room, on the surface, wasn't that different from any other control room he'd been in on any other planet. He manned the comm station in the center of the room, while several of the resident scientists worked stations nearer the walls, interpreting the pages of data that scrolled across view screens. At his last job, he'd been surrounded by no fewer than half a dozen scientists at any point in time, reading screens that covered the entirety of two walls; here, however, they apparently only had enough staff for two scientists to be on duty per shift. At the moment, Gerard and William peered at three tiny screens, scribbling notes on physical paper, which Patrick hadn't seen used in a professional setting ... well, ever. When he asked about it, Gerard gave Patrick a lopsided smile and waved a hand in the air. "I like paper. It's more solid than data files."

"What he means," said a voice from door connecting the control room with the airlock, "is that he can't take data files to bed with him and wake up with ink smudged all over his face."

Gerard snorted. "I only did that once. Fuck off, Frank."

Frank tossed the helmet of his pressure suit at Gerard, who caught it just before it crashed into a view screen. Gerard hurled it back with what Patrick was sure was meant to be lethal force, but actually barely made it to Frank's hands. Frank and Pete - who had just removed his own helmet - started laughing hysterically. "Save it for the bedroom, children," William said distractedly, but when Patrick looked at him, he was grinning at his own view screen.

Pete stripped out of his pressure suit; underneath, he wore the body-hugging jumpsuit that all planet-walkers preferred, as it allowed them the most range of movement inside the pressure suits. Pete then bent over to stow his suit inside a cubbyhole in the wall. When he realized he was eying the way the suit curved at the small of Pete's back, Patrick immediately turned back to his station and tuned the audio channel to the standard incoming frequencies. He was checking the third frequency when he felt someone at his back. "You're not going to hear anything," Pete said, bending down to lean his hands on Patrick's console. "Nobody ever calls us, not unless we call first."

Patrick had already figured that, but he responded just to be contrary. "Doesn't hurt to check. What if someone out there has an emergency?"

"We'd only get an emergency call if the rest of the galaxy had been taken hostage by space pirates," Pete said.

"Or zombies!" Frank supplied helpfully.

"Maybe the space pirates are zombies." Gerard actually looked thoughtful. "They could be bringing a horrible virus that will turn the rest of the civilized galaxy into their zombie slaves!"

"We could have a zombie virus on our station right now," Pete said, looking back down at Patrick. He had that stupid, giant grin on his face again, and Patrick wasn't sure whether he was tempted to smack him or ... something. "Maybe they sent Patrick here because he has a zombie virus."

"If I had brought a zombie virus," Patrick responded, "wouldn't we be hearing a lot more moaning and shuffling in the halls?"

"I hear that when I go to breakfast every morning," William put in, "but then someone gives Gerard his coffee, and it disappears."

"Hey!"

Frank and William both burst into giggles at Gerard's offended tone. Patrick grinned and turned back to Pete. "Trust me, no zombie virus."

"Good." Pete stood back up and turned towards the door, but then turned back. "Patrick?"

"What?"

"If you were a zombie, I'd totally let you eat my brains."

Patrick let out a surprised laugh. "I'm pretty sure I'd go for a more substantial meal first."

Pete clutched his heart and staggered backward. "A direct hit." There was that stupid grin again, but only for a moment, and then Pete left the room, whistling.

 

 

The job wasn’t all fun and games. An alarm began to shriek in the middle of Patrick’s second shift. “What the …” He swiveled around in his chair to look at the rest of the room.

Greta immediately jumped up from her station in the corner of the room. “Do we have an emergency suit in here?” she asked.

Spencer disappeared into the locker room. When he emerged, he shook his head. “I’m going to look up who was on suit maintenance duty this week and kick their ass.”

Greta swore creatively. “I’ll go find one. Patrick, call them and figure out what the hell happened.”

Patrick almost asked “who?”, but swallowed the dumb question and punched the frequency for Drill 3, where Frank and Victoria had headed less than an hour before. “Anyone out there?” he asked the static. “What’s wrong?”

A few seconds later, the static buzzed, and Frank’s voice came on. “Fucking wind - it’s nasty out here today. It blew one of the valves off of the main generator, knocked out the volume meter power and life support inside the drill room. We’re trying to get the backup generator online, but the damned thing hasn’t been used in months. I think it needs some maintenance before we’ll get it running.”

Greta returned to the room with a tall, thin man in tow - he was already half dressed for planet walking. “What’s the story?” he asked Patrick.

“The generator at Drill 3 is offline, the backup needs maintenance.”

“Got it. I’ll grab a maintenance kit and head out there.” He tipped an imaginary hat at Patrick. “I’m Ryland, by the way.”

Patrick gave him a half wave and turned back to the console. “Ryland’s on his way to you, he’s bringing supplies.”

Ryland was almost done suiting up when Victoria’s voice came over the comm. “Tell him to bring a spare oxygen tank,” she said. “Frank’s blew a hole when he went outside to check the wiring to the drill. He’s on the emergency tank from the kit out here, but that’ll only last a half hour. Get your ass out here, Ryland.”

Greta dashed out of the room again, while Spencer helped Ryland secure his helmet. Just as they were fastening his supply pack to his back, Greta came back and shoved a small cylinder into the pack. She patted the pack when she was done. “Go. Be safe.”

Patrick looked at Greta once Ryland had left. “Will that little thing be enough oxygen for Frank?”

“Sure it will.” Greta came over and sat on the edge of Patrick’s console. “Even if they don’t get the generator running immediately, between what’s left in Frank’s suit and the tank Ryland’s bringing, he can get back here with time to spare.”

“Really? Sheesh. It doesn’t even seem big enough.”

“Is this your first time in a non-breathable atmosphere?” Spencer asked.

“I worked on Kino VI for a little while - they don’t have breathable air, but they’re one of the oldest company complexes, so they have an entire city built out of tunnels and domes.” Patrick leaned back in his seat and took a deep breath. He reminded himself that he wasn’t the one outside, relying on a tiny emergency can of oxygen. “I did pressure suit training back when I started working, but I haven’t used it since.”

“You should really re-train,” Spencer said. “If, god forbid, something were to ever go horribly wrong around here, everyone needs to know how to at least work a pressure suit.”

Patrick was saved from a reply when his console beeped. “Frank’s heading back on his own,” Victoria said over the static. “Expect him in ten minutes. Ryland’s helping me fix the generator. We should have the backup online in a few minutes, and then it’ll probably take us an hour or so to get the main one back up and running. Tell Pete we’re not going to have enough time to go check on Drill 4 before the end of shift, he needs to get out there when he and Carden go on.”

When Frank finally appeared in the doorway to the airlock, he pulled off his helmet and tossed it to the ground. “Motherfucker,” he swore, leaning his hands on his knees and breathing deeply. “That sucked.”

“You okay?” Patrick asked.

“Need to go to the med bay?” Greta picked up his helmet and stood next to him.

“No. No, I’m fine, nothing bruised or broken. I’ve just been taking shallow breaths for the last half hour. As much as I know there’s enough air in those stupid canisters, my brain just kept screaming ‘conserve the oxygen, you dumb fuck!’”

Patrick found himself taking deeper breaths along with Frank. He closed his eyes as Frank started rattling off a list of things that were wrong with the generator to Spencer, who seemed to be writing up some kind of report on the incident. “I want to go home,” he said under his breath, feeling somewhat childish. But home had family, and warm sunlight, and lots of oxygen. He hadn’t realized how much the latter two meant to him until he got to this godforsaken place.

He was here, though, for better or worse. He’d have to make the best of it.

 

They had a party to welcome Patrick - an honest-to-god party, complete with cake and a big sign in the common lounge at center station. Patrick didn't quite know what to do when Spencer steered him into the room, which was filled with everyone who wasn't working the overnight shift. "Are you kidding?" He looked from Spencer to Pete, who had bounded across the room to throw his arm around Patrick's shoulders. "The last job I had, all I got was a card that had the station supervisor's signature stamped on it."

"I believe in being hands-on with my employees." Pete leered at Patrick while the rest of the room hooted with laughter. Patrick shoved Pete away, but he found himself grinning. How could he not? There was chocolate icing involved. And Pete leering ... well, that wasn't exactly unwelcome, though Patrick vowed to never tell him that.

The evening was a whirlwind of names and faces. There was Gabe, the lead in-station engineer, trailed by two of his staff members, both of whom were apparently named Alex. (There were two more Alexes on Clandestine; one of Patrick's fellow communication techs, who missed the party because he'd agreed to relieve Patrick early, and a planet-walker. After getting this explanation, Patrick decided to just call anyone he didn't recognize Alex.) Gerard and Frank were joined by Gerard's brother Mikey - another communications tech - a scientist named Ray, and Victoria, who Patrick had only said hello to in passing before she went on shift the day before. He met more than a dozen other people, shaking hands and exchanging smiles enough times that faces started to blend together. It was awesome, no question, but by the time the drunken dancing started, Patrick was more than ready to disappear.

He meant to go back to his room, but the route back took him past the station's one public observation window. He paused, watching white eddys swirl around in the air. In the distance, he could see large rock formations looming hundreds of feet above the planet's surface, but otherwise, all he could see was snow. The swirling snow even blocked his view of the black sky and stars above, which caused an ache in his chest that made him lean his forehead against the window surface and close his eyes.

He was only half surprised when he heard a voice behind him. "I told Gabe, we don't give the newbies the hard alcohol, not until we know they can handle it."

Patrick felt Pete's hand rest lightly on his shoulder. He looked up, forced a half grin. "Don't worry, I'm smart enough to figure out that taking drinks from Gabe is a bad plan."

"A fast learner. I like that." Pete leaned his forearm on the window, then rested his forehead against his arm. He looked out into the snow. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"What?" Patrick looked back out the window. "I guess? It just looks so ... cold."

"You get used to it." At Patrick's inadvertent sigh, Pete turned around and leaned his back against the window. He studied Patrick's face seriously. "I know being assigned here sucks. But we try to make the best of it."

"I know. That was great." Patrick gestured back at the lounge, where the murmur of voices and music could still be heard. "I didn't even get to go home first," he blurted out, surprising himself. Pete continued to stare, so Patrick shrugged helplessly and continued. "I've been on continuous assignment for two years, no vacation long enough to travel home. I was going to take a week to go visit my family, but the only transport coming in this direction made its last visit to Aerie two days after I got my new assignment. Someone at headquarters had already booked my seat. If I didn't take that transport, the company wouldn't pay for my flight. I didn't have enough money to go home and pay my way back here."

Pete was silent for several seconds. "Where are you from?"

"Gamma 6."

"One of the company planets?"

"Yeah. My mom works in the local shipping station. I applied for a job at headquarters so I could be nearer to them, but ..." Patrick shrugged. "I guess I misjudged my performance reviews."

"Or the corporate minions at headquarters are jackasses." Pete rolled his eyes. "Trust me, if I had to choose, I'd put money on some middle-management douchewad screwing up the paperwork over thinking you fucked something up."

"How do you know that? I've only been working here for a few days."

"I'm a good judge of character." Pete smiled and poked Patrick in the shoulder. When Patrick raised an eyebrow at him, Pete poked him again. "Wanna go back in? Trust me, it's worth it to hear Gabe give the whole cobra lecture. If he's drunk enough, there might even be shadow puppets."

Patrick felt himself smile. "Nah, that's okay. I think I need to get some sleep."

"Suit yourself." Pete reached over and ruffled Patrick's hair. Without thinking, Patrick elbowed him away. When he looked over at Pete, though, Pete was grinning. "Someday," he said, "I'll get you drunk, and then I'll learn all your deep, dark secrets."

"Good luck with that."

When Patrick finally drifted to sleep a little while later, the weight that had been sitting in his chest since he'd been reassigned felt just a little bit lighter.

 

Most stations Patrick had worked on had dozens of personnel, enough that each specialty could concentrate on its own work without having to cross-train. On Clandestine, however, it seemed like versatility was the name of the game. William manned the comm station for a shift when both Brendon and Alex were down with the flu; Gabe had a pressure suit and could do the planet-walk in a pinch, and no one on the station was exempt from kitchen duty. After a couple of weeks, Patrick was a little awestruck at how such a small crew could successfully run a station and seven different mining sites. He actually felt a little bit useless, he admitted to himself. His knowledge of engineering was rudimentary at best, he was a terrible cook, and he'd never been trained for planet-walking. Pete offered to teach him, but he shook his head. "No way. I'll spend my free time sweeping floors and washing dishes, as long as I can stay in here where there's a whole steel reinforced structure between me and oxygen deprivation."

"You're a wuss, Stump."

"I have never claimed to be otherwise."

"Still," Pete insisted, "everyone on the station is required to know the basic operation of a pressure suit. You know, in case of extreme emergency."

Patrick shuddered. "Don't even say the words."

Reluctantly, Patrick allowed Pete to zip him into Frank's pressure suit, explaining the various controls that lived inside the gloves and helmet. "There are buttons inside the glove fingers that control the emergency flow of oxygen to the helmet," Pete said, "but they're inactive unless you voice activate them. So if you find yourself short on air, save at least one breath to say 'shark attack.'"

"Excuse me?" Patrick raised an eyebrow. "'Shark attack?'"

"It's a phrase you're likely to never say by accident." Pete grinned and fit the helmet onto Patrick's head.

Inside the helmet, Patrick's peripheral vision was cut off; the visor only allowed him to see directly in front of him. "There are motion sensors here on your backpack," Pete explained as he disappeared behind Patrick to activate the oxygen tank. His voice sounded thin through the tiny speakers inside the helmet. "They'll tell you if anything is approaching from the side or behind."

"Anything? What, are there animals out there or something?"

"Nah, if there are any life forms that can survive this atmosphere, they stay far away from us, because I’ve never seen one. But it's a standard feature on all company pressure suits."

Pete fell silent. A moment later, Patrick heard a click, and the soft hiss of air being pumped inside the helmet. Patrick took a deep breath; it tasted slightly metallic. He couldn't hear anything outside his helmet. He felt his chest tighten. "Pete?" he said.

"Yeah?"

"Can we be done now?"

A moment later, Pete's face appeared in his view. His smile faded when he looked into the visor. "You okay?"

"No. Take off the helmet, please?"

Pete disappeared again. After a long moment, the hiss of oxygen disappeared, and several clicks signaled the release of the airtight seal at the base of the helmet. Then the helmet was gone, and Patrick took a gulp of normal-tasting air. He felt his face grow red as Pete circled around to face him again. "Sorry," he muttered. "I really hate those things."

"Okay. Okay," Pete said. "I promise, you won't have to wear one ever, unless there's an emergency."

"I'm going to pray we never have that kind of emergency."

Pete nodded. "I do that a lot."

"What? Pray?"

"Yeah. Sorta." Pete started to unfasten the straps on Patrick's suit. He sounded serious - unusual for Pete, Patrick was beginning to learn. "I'm not stupid, I know there are a million things that can go wrong out here. And there are a million more mistakes I can make that would cause things to go wrong. I spend a lot of time just hoping I don't fuck up." He finished unfastening the straps on Patrick's arms and pulled the heavy gloves from his hands. He looked Patrick in the eye and shrugged, a half-smile on his face. "Sorry. That's not the most reassuring thing, I know, to hear your supervisor talk about how terrified he can be."

"Strangely enough, it _is_ reassuring." Patrick shrugged. The pressure suit was thick enough that his shoulders barely moved. "I guess it's just nice to know I'm not the only one who's scared."

"You're not. Trust me." Pete stepped back, and Patrick began to remove the rest of his suit. "Oooh," he said, his voice back to its normal mocking tone. "Job-mandated strip teases. Just one of the perks of being the boss."

Patrick pulled off one of his boots and threw it at Pete. "Get out."

"Hey! Have respect for the equipment!"

"Have respect for your underlings, douchebag."

Patrick was glad Pete disappeared before he noticed Patrick's blush. That was just the kind of embarrassing end to the conversation he definitely did not need.

 

 

After a while, Patrick found himself assigned to be the semi-official assistant to the station's medic, possibly because he was the only person on the crew that didn't get injured on a regular basis. Except, of course, for the medic herself - a tiny, energetic brunette named Bebe. When Patrick asked her how she'd ended up on Clandestine, she just grinned. "I asked to be sent here."

"Why in god's name would you do that?"

"The alternatives were worse."

Patrick asked, but Bebe never did explain those alternatives.

Station gossip (which usually came in a Brendon-shaped broadcast) told Patrick that Bebe and Pete had an on-again, off-again affair. The night Patrick saw them tangled together comfortably on a sofa in the common lounge seemed to indicate that they were, at the moment, on. Patrick refused to acknowledge the little lump that formed in the pit of his stomach when he saw them together. He liked Pete. He liked Bebe. If they were happy, then that was good, right?

The day Pete limped into the medical bay, leaning on Gabe for support, both Patrick and Bebe rushed over. Bebe was markedly less concerned than Patrick. "What the fuck did you do now?" she asked, poking Pete in the arm.

"Something outside?" Patrick asked.

Gabe snickered. "Not hardly. Someone decided to climb to the ceiling in engineering in order to drop water balloons on me. He's lucky he only fell to the high catwalk."

Bebe merely rolled her eyes and went into the back room for supplies. Patrick followed Gabe as he helped Pete onto a bed. "Are you insane?" he asked as he rolled up one leg of Pete's pants to expose skin that was becoming more brown and green by the second.

"Is that a trick question?" Pete replied. He winced when Patrick poked at the injury. "Ouch, wait for the expert, will you?"

"Suck it up, you deserve a little pain." But when Bebe returned, he stepped back and held her instruments while she carefully wrapped Pete's ankle in bandages. "So what," he asked, when he noticed Pete's face turning paler as Bebe moved his ankle in different directions, "you decided that sabotaging all the chairs in the control room wasn't enough entertainment for you?"

"You can't pin that on me," Pete insisted. "I refuse to take the blame for Frank."

"Liar. I happen to know that Frank was occupied that night. I was playing cards with Travis, and he's unfortunate enough to share a wall with Frank and Gerard." Patrick made a face. "And they're really loud."

Bebe snickered, and Pete sighed heavily. "Oh, well, at least someone around here is getting laid." He yelped when Bebe poked him. "What??"

"You might be getting laid still if you weren't a complete jerk face."

"No, I might still be getting laid if you didn't have a weakness for ... ouch!"

Bebe drew her hypo-needle back from Pete's leg and gave him large, innocent eyes. "That will help you with the pain."

Pete grumbled. Patrick looked from Pete to Bebe and back to Pete; neither one of them looked particularly angry. In fact, Bebe started giggling as she walked back to put things away, and Pete had a half-grin on his face as he rolled his eyes at Patrick. "She's an expert at torture."

"You're an expert at being a moron," she called from across the room.

Pete just laid his head back and closed his eyes, the drug Bebe had given him obviously taking effect. Patrick busied himself around the medical bay, but kept stealing glances at Pete as he slept. Just to make sure he was still okay. Because it was sort of his job. Really.

 

One night, Patrick came off an overtime shift in the middle of the station's graveyard rotation. Luckily, the person on kitchen duty that day had left the fixings for a late-night meal out in the cafeteria, so he had a full stomach by the time he wandered in the direction of his quarters. He was yawning loudly as he passed the common lounge in his wing, which is why he initially missed the thumping noise that came from inside. But, the thumping got louder, and Patrick stopped in his tracks. When he stuck his head inside, he saw Pete lying on a couch, kicking aimlessly at the wall. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Pete muttered. He stared at the ceiling and kicked the wall again.

"Pete?" Patrick moved into the room and sat on a chair next to Pete. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Pete repeated. He visibly composed himself before looking over at Patrick. "Nothing, sorry, go to bed. I just can't sleep."

"Maybe doing something other than assaulting the wall would help?"

Pete laughed. "Nah. This happens all the time. Nothing helps. I just have to wait it out."

"For how long?"

Pete shrugged. "Last time it was three days."

"Jesus."

"It's okay. I'm used to it." Pete closed his eyes.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Patrick stretched his legs out and propped them up on the table in front of him. "So," he said, "what did you want to be when you grew up? You know, when you were a kid?"

Pete's eyes flew open. He looked as if he'd forgotten Patrick was sitting there. But then, a smile twisted across his face. "I wanted to play music. You know, be in a band, play on a different planet every night, that sort of thing. The same thing every kid dreams about, I guess. But I sucked at every instrument I tried, so no go."

Patrick laughed. "I wanted to be a musician, too. I even tried for a little while, after school. I can play a few different things, but nothing ever seemed to work out. Eventually, I just applied for a company job and put all the instruments away."

Pete twisted around until he was lying on his stomach and looking at Patrick. "What do you play?"

"Oh ... drums, a little guitar, enough electro-synth to write a basic melody, I guess."

"You write music?"

"Sometimes. I haven't written anything recently. I wasn’t able to bring any of my instruments here."

"Sing me something you wrote."

Patrick blinked. "I don't really sing ..."

"Trust me, you can't sound worse than me." Pete rested his chin in his hand. "Come on, indulge the insomniac."

Patrick looked over at Pete; the circles underneath his eyes threatened to take over his whole face. Still, he looked livelier than he had when Patrick had walked in, staring at Patrick expectantly. Patrick looked at the ceiling. What the hell, he thought ... no one else was around to hear him. He thought for a minute, before deciding on a simple little song he'd written just before he took the company job. The lyrics weren't anything to write home about, but he still liked the basic progression of the melody. So, he sang it softly, continuing to stare at the ceiling. When he reached a part that had no words - or where he'd forgotten them - he hummed nonsense syllables. When he reached the end of what he remembered, he looked back down at Pete. He got a slack-jawed stare in response. "That bad, huh?" he joked.

Pete continued to stare. After a moment, he shook his head as if to clear it. "Fuck. Don't you dare ever tell me you 'don't really sing' again. You're a liar."

"What?"

"That was amazing." A grin spread across Pete's face. "Sing another one."

"You can't be serious."

"Why not? You sound awesome."

Patrick just stared at him. "I think the lack of sleep is affecting your judgment."

There was a long moment in which Pete simply studied Patrick's face. Pete's eyes felt dark and heavy on Patrick's skin, and he resisted the urge to squirm. When Pete spoke again, he sounded oddly serious. "Sing me a lullaby, Patrick. Please?"

Patrick couldn't say no to those dark eyes - and the dark circles that surrounded them. So he looked back up at the ceiling and started singing a song he remembered from childhood, a jazzy song his father used to play on the speakers that dotted his house. Patrick remembered lying in the middle of the floor in his bedroom and listening to the singer's deep, smooth voice wash over him. It always seemed to sink deep into his skin and plant little musical seeds there. It had been so long since he'd thought about it ... a long time since he'd packed up his music and given his life to the company. The memory sat heavily in his chest; it was a good kind of ache, though, like the stretching of a muscle long ignored. When he finished that song, he immediately launched into the song he always remembered following that one. It was a slower song, a love song, the kind of song he used to sometimes dream about singing to someone he really cared about, someday, when he was grown up and confident and had someone who looked at him like he was something special.

When he finished that song, he took a long, slow breath before he looked back down at Pete. Pete's eyes were closed, and his back rose and fell in an even rhythm. Patrick felt his mouth quirk up into a half smile. "Sweet dreams," he murmured, before quietly leaving the room for his own quarters.

 

It became an erratic routine. Patrick started checking the lounge before he went to bed most nights; every so often, Pete would be lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, and Patrick would go in and distract him. They talked about the most random topics - worst childhood dreams, first crushes, the pros and cons of the company-backed candidate for prime minister of Gamma 6 - but the nights always ended with Patrick singing Pete to sleep. They were always alone, but that didn't mean the station gossip system didn't get a hold of the information. "So," Brendon said, perching on the edge of the comm station after Patrick relieved him one day, "what's up with you and Pete?"

"What?" Patrick was distracted enough by his routine system check that he didn't register the question for a few moments. Then, he looked up and narrowed his eyes at Brendon. "Um, nothing?"

"That's not what I hear," Brendon said in a singsong voice.

"Please enlighten me." Patrick sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Hey, it's nothing bad or anything," Brendon said hastily, noticing the expression on Patrick's face. "It's just that you guys have been spending a lot of time together late at night. People talk about that kind of thing. And Pete hasn't been hanging all over Bebe or Mikey or Ryan or anybody, like he usually does. So some people are thinking ..."

"They're thinking wrong," Patrick said. He turned back to the console to hide the flush that he could feel spreading across his cheeks. "We're just hanging out. No big deal."

Later, when Pete came in to suit up for his run to Drill 6, Patrick thought about Brendon's question and had a momentary urge to bang his head against his console. Because yeah, he could lie to Brendon, no problem, but he knew damned well that he was nursing a major crush on Pete. And maybe Pete flirted, or did things that looked like flirting, but ... well, Pete flirted with everyone, and besides, Patrick knew exactly what happened when you misinterpreted a coworker's signals. At his last job, he'd mistaken someone's friendliness for something more. After a surprised _"oh, god, I'm sorry, you're a really nice guy, but ..."_ , things were markedly awkward for weeks afterward. She'd worked in a totally different department - if he'd been miserable seeing her once a day, how would it feel to have that awkward dance every time Pete wandered in and out of the control room? No, Patrick had learned his lesson. He wouldn't be making any first moves.

When Pete came over to Patrick's console and rested his chin on Patrick's head, Patrick shoved him backward. "Aww, is someone in a bad mood?" Pete asked, jabbing Patrick's shoulder with a finger.

"Someone is trying to work, asshole," Patrick grumbled.

"Right, patching through the nine million incoming transmissions we get. Because we're the most popular base in the galaxy."

"Drill 7's control room still has a shitty connection. I'm trying to repair it before you idiots head out there, so you don't freeze to death if something goes wrong."

"My hero," Pete said in a singsong voice. "Whatever would I do without you?"

Patrick swiveled around in his chair to find Pete grinning that giant, dopey grin at him, the one that shouldn't be quite as attractive as it actually was. Shit. Patrick found himself grinning, but he turned back around to mask it. "Go take a walk, the freezing cold awaits."

A moment later, Patrick felt Pete's arms encircle his waist, and Pete's chin appeared on his shoulder. "Will you warm me up when I get back?" Pete asked, his mouth too close to Patrick's ear for comfort.

Patrick twisted his head - possibly a mistake, because that put his face close enough to Pete's that he could feel Pete's breath washing over his skin. If he decided to lean just a millimeter closer ... Patrick swallowed. Pete's grin was fading into something softer, less mocking, and Patrick didn't quite know how to interpret the expression.

There was a sudden crash from the other side of the room, and Patrick slid backwards out of Pete's grasp without thinking. They both turned to see William tossing pens at Frank over an overturned - thankfully empty - shelving unit while Frank used his helmet as a shield. "Please go," William said, "before you guys completely trash our control room."

"Hey," Pete protested, "I didn't do anything!"

"This time."

"That's all that matters."

Patrick bent back over his console to hide the flush he could feel on his cheeks. He didn't look up until he heard someone begin to key in the opening sequence for the airlock. Pete was looking in his direction, but with his helmet on, Patrick couldn't see his expression. He figured he was better off that way.

 

"Guess what day it is!" Gabe practically sang as he skipped - yes, skipped - into the control room.

"If it's the fifth Galactic Day of Cobra Worship of the year," Victoria said as she stripped off her pressure suit, "just remember, if you try to remove any of my clothing again, I will relocate your balls into your throat."

Undaunted, Gabe smiled at her. "Good guess, but no, it's even better. It's Emergency Drill Day!"

The rest of the control room groaned. Patrick just narrowed his gaze. "Why, precisely, does that make it a good day?"

"Because," Ray said from his station in the corner, "it's the day Gabe gets to mercilessly torture us and get paid for it."

"It's the day we all learn station safety, boys and girls!" Gabe clapped his hands together. "Now you have more warning than I should have given you, so be prepared, motherfuckers."

Gabe skipped out, and Victoria sighed. "Oh, good. Okay, folks, I'll start the pot - five credits to get in, how many times does he set off the alarm during our shift?"

"Twelve," Ray guessed, and Victoria tapped something into her hand-held data pad.

"Sixteen," Travis offered from his station across the room.

"I'm going all in and predicting we get to twenty." Ryland held his hand out to Victoria, and she shook it solemnly. "And if we top twenty, someone takes my next kitchen shift."

"I think he's going to psych us all out," Victoria said. She grinned at Ryland. "If we don't get to ten, you get my next kitchen shift."

"Deal."

She looked at Patrick. "What about you?"

He shook his head. "I think I'll stay firmly in the middle, and go with fourteen. And wonder why none of you have killed Gabe yet."

"They'd never send us another engineer, and none of us want to deal with that bullshit," Ray said.

"And I'm half afraid the fucker will come back and haunt me," Ryland added.

In the end, Ray won the pot - they ended up having to secure the control room eleven different times during the course of the shift. By the end, Patrick figured he could do the whole process in his sleep; the alarm would sound, the doors to the control room would seal from the outside, and everyone would man their posts. Patrick sent imaginary distress signals and checked the status of each drill's comm system. Ray and Travis backed up all their work onto data discs that went into an emergency storage box, and Victoria and Ryland spent the day going from drill to drill, making sure the emergency survival kits were fully stocked. "At least we're not on Gabe's crew," Victoria said as she stripped off her pressure suit after the eighth drill.

"Does he torture his own even more than us?" Patrick asked.

"Oh yeah. They all have to take a turn heading outside and climbing onto the station roof to look for cracks or weaknesses."

Patrick shuddered. "Better them than me."

"Exactly. Especially since Gabe sets little traps for them before he does the drills. After the last one, Marshall had welts on his wrists for days." When Patrick raised an eyebrow, Victoria shook her head at him. "Don't ask. You're already phobic about the outside."

"Got it."

After his shift was over, Patrick found Pete in the lounge. "You missed all the fun," he said, sitting down next to him on the couch.

"No, I didn't." Pete rolled his eyes. "I spent the day holed up in my office, finishing all the stupid paperwork I never do. Gabe has entire checklists full of things that the company requires us to have available in case of disaster. I don't even bother unless Gabe kicks my ass." He fluttered his eyelashes at Patrick. "I'm exhausted. Take care of me."

"You're exhausted?" Patrick poked him. "I crawled around on the floor for the better part of six hours, checking all the comm connections. And you spent all day sitting at your desk? My heart bleeds."

"Whatever, remember how you sit in a chair all day while I drag my ass around outside? You're due a little physical activity."

"Fuck off, I totally do physical things."

"Like what?"

"Like helping haul Nate's sorry ass into the med bay the other day. He tried to tell me something about a dare and an air duct, but I didn't want to know."

Pete snorted. "Fucker. He lied to me, I'm gonna make him give me my 20 credits back."

Patrick looked sideways at him. "... no, I still don't want to know."

"Come on, you're small, you could totally fit in there."

"Fit in where?" When Pete opened his mouth, Patrick held up a hand. "No. I'm not shoving myself into an air duct for money. Or whatever it is you're doing."

"Well, then, I have other ideas to get you some physical activity." Pete laughed. "Okay, wow, that was a lame pickup line, even for me."

"A pickup ..." Patrick trailed off.

Pete squirmed in his seat, but after a moment, he spread his hands and looked Patrick in the eye. "Listen. If I've been barking up the wrong tree, just tell me, and I'll stop. I'm not the kind of boss who sexually harasses anyone unless they really want it."

"Are you telling me you've been trying to seduce me?"

"Of course I have. You really didn't know? I thought I was doing everything but spray painting 'fuck me, Patrick' on the control room wall." When Patrick simply stared at him, Pete started babbling. "I'm sorry, I don't know how to tell when I'm not wanted unless someone tells me. Or hits me, that's happened a bunch of times too. Why don't you just punch me and we can go back to normal?"

"Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up, will you?" With that, he took a deep breath, leaned over and kissed Pete.

One moment, Patrick was twisting awkwardly in his seat to reach Pete; the next, he found himself pressed into the back of the couch, Pete looming over him. Pete pulled back from the kiss and looked at Patrick. "For real?"

"Yes, for real." Patrick's voice sounded breathless to his ears. "I didn't think you ..."

"You're an idiot."

"Takes one to know one."

A large, goofy smile spread across Pete's face. "Of course it does."

In another quick move, Pete jumped up and pulled Patrick to his feet. Patrick allowed himself to be dragged into the hallway and, eventually, into Pete's quarters. Inside, Patrick looked around. "Really? This is smaller than my room."

Pete shrugged. "It's the room I was given when I got assigned here. I was too lazy to move when I got promoted. Besides," he added, shoving Patrick toward the bed that took up nearly half the space in the room, "the important part is big enough."

"There's a joke about big somewhere ..." Patrick was cut off when Pete pushed him onto his back and straddled him on the bed.

Pete leaned over him; his hips pressed lightly against Patrick's, and Patrick felt his cock respond to the contact. Pete laughed and nuzzled his ear. "Shit," he murmured. His breath sent shivers down Patrick's skin. "I've been waiting for this."

They spent the next few minutes kissing and touching and pulling frantically at unwanted clothing. Even more of Pete's skin was covered in dark ink than Patrick had previously thought. He rolled Pete onto his back and traced the patterns on his hips with his fingers. Pete made a low, urgent sound at the back of his throat when Patrick's fingers ventured close to the dark hair between his legs. "If you don't start actually touching me," Pete said roughly, "I may punch you. Just a warning."

Grinning, Patrick licked the palm of his hand and wrapped it around Pete's cock. Pete's hips arched up off the bed. Patrick stroked him slowly a few times before letting go and straddling Pete's legs. He scooted close enough that their cocks brushed against each other, sending pleasant shocks up Patrick's spine. In response, Pete reached down and grabbed both their cocks in one hand. Their skin was slick enough with sweat already that when Pete's hand moved up and down, the slight pain of friction was nearly overshadowed by the sensation of being caught between Pete's cock and calloused hands. His vision swam, and he leaned over far enough to put his hands on the bed. "God, Pete. _Fuck_."

"Is that a request?" Pete's voice was rough; when Patrick looked at him, his eyes seemed nearly black.

Patrick let the mental image wash over him for a moment. "No," he said, more than a bit reluctantly. "Because I don't think I'm going to last long enough for that."

"Me either."

Pete let go and nudged Patrick back down onto the bed. He stretched out on his side and pulled Patrick to him for a deep, filthy kiss, full of tongue and teeth and little moans that seemed to vibrate somewhere inside Patrick's skin. He didn't know when their hips started moving - he was, he thought, so overwhelmed with everything _Pete_ that he didn't realize how hard he was grinding against Pete's hip until his body shuddered an early warning. "Fuck, Pete. I'm about to ..."

"Do it. God, just do it, just come."

Patrick's body didn't need any more encouragement. He buried his face in Pete's neck and let the orgasm take over. When he was done, he looked up to see Pete staring at him with an expression that looked almost hungry. Patrick leaned in to nip at Pete's bottom lip at the same time he reached down and grasped Pete's cock again. It was only a minute or so until Pete spilled all over his hand, his eyes never leaving Patrick's face. Afterward, they both turned over onto their backs to catch their breath. "Shit," Patrick said to the ceiling. "It's been a while. I'm not usually that ... fast."

Pete laughed. "If you want slower, there's always next time."

Patrick turned his head to look at Pete. He was pretty sure the grin that spread across his face was seriously goofy looking, but he was too wrung out to care. "I'll hold you to that."

The bed was disgusting, but Pete wouldn't let him leave. "Just put a blanket down between us and the bed, or something like that." Pete's arms wound around Patrick's waist, and he curled up against Patrick's body. "I sleep better when you're around."

There was no way Patrick could possibly say no to that. So, he drifted off to sleep to the sound of Pete's breath gently huffing in his ear.

 

One day during breakfast, Mikey sat down next to Patrick. “Hey, did you know Pete’s birthday is next week?”

Patrick blinked. “No.”

“I figured. He sucks at telling people. But then he gets all depressed if his birthday goes by and no one says anything.”

“Even if it’s his own fault?”

“Yeah.” Mikey shrugged, looking sideways at Patrick and grinning. “Welcome to Pete Wentz.”

Patrick thought for a while, but no ideas came to him until he was coming off shift the next day. Pete was just starting his shift, and he groped Patrick’s ass as they passed through the control room. In return, Patrick elbowed him in the stomach. “Ow!” Pete danced away. “That hurt, motherfucker.”

“Don’t pinch my ass, then.”

“But it’s such a nice ass.”

“Grope your boyfriend on your own time, Wentz.” Ryland pushed Pete toward the airlock. “We have three drills to look after.”

“And I have a nap to take,” Patrick added.

“Speaking of sleep …” Pete fluttered his eyelashes at Patrick as he walked backwards next to Ryland. “Will you sing me a lullaby tonight, Patrick?”

“Only if you promise to never pinch my ass again.”

“You’re no fun.” Pete stuck his bottom lip out, but a grin marred the expression. “Fine, I promise.”

Patrick was halfway down the hall to his room when inspiration struck. He turned around and headed for engineering. Gabe stood in the middle of his office, draped in wires and turning around in circles. “You okay?”

“Can’t remember where I put my power drill.” Gabe shrugged, and several cables fell from his shoulders. “Oh well. That can wait. What can I do for you, my impossibly short friend?”

“Do we have any recording equipment stashed around here?”

“Video or audio?” Gabe waggled his eyebrows. “If you want video, I have a great setup that might suit your purposes.”

“My purposes … oh. Fuck off, that’s not what I was asking you for.”

“Too bad. The word is you and Pete have an awesome sex life, at least by the sound of it.”

“The sound …” Patrick felt himself flush red. “Who’s heard us?”

“William lives next door to Pete, remember?”

“Right. Remind me to punch him, will you?”

“He’s twice your size. He would pound you into the ground.”

“We are talking about William, right? Looks like he would break in a heavy wind?” Despite himself, Patrick laughed. “No, seriously, I’m actually looking for audio equipment.”

“I might have a piece or two hiding around here somewhere. What are you going to use it for?”

“Recording.”

“Well, that’s not vague at all.”

Patrick shrugged. “It’s a surprise. For Pete. His birthday’s coming up, or so I hear.”

“Oh, yeah! Nearly forgot about that. Time to drag out the good tequila and the old Earth movies.” Gabe nodded. “All right. I’m gonna take a stab in the dark and guess you’re recording vocals of some sort?”

“Good guess.”

“I have something for you. The quality kinda blows, but it gets the job done. We frankensteined something together last year to pull a prank on Greta. We made her believe her room was haunted for a little while. It was awesome.”

“I can only imagine how she got back at you.”

“Swiftly and viciously.” Gabe grinned. “I have to say, it was almost awesome to see all my underwear tied to the rafters in the cargo bay. I think one of my pairs of boxers might still be out there.”

“Oh, is that what that blue thing is over by the exit?”

“Yep. It seems like it belongs there by now.”

Gabe fetched a large box; inside, a comm system speaker had wires looped all around the back, as well as a smaller box attached at the bottom. “We just fed it back into itself, so instead of broadcasting to someplace else, it goes into a portable drive. Just stick some memory in there and you’re good to go.”

Patrick took the device back to his room. He played with it for four days straight, whenever he had time to himself without the threat of a Pete interruption. By the time Pete’s birthday rolled around, he had something he wasn’t totally ashamed of. It wasn’t as good as he wanted it to be, but … well, he was out of time, and it was something, anyway.

They shared a shift that day; afterward, Patrick bumped his shoulder into Pete. “Hey, let’s take some food back to my room and hang out.”

“Can’t wait to get your hands on me, is that it?” Pete grinned and put an arm around Patrick’s waist.

“Something like that, yeah.”

Back in his room, Patrick dug a small data stick out of his bedside drawer and frowned at it for a moment. Pete noticed him. “What’s that?”

“It’s …” Patrick shrugged. He tossed it in the air and caught it once. “Oh, what the hell.” He threw it to Pete. “Happy birthday.”

“What?” Pete caught the stick and held it between his fingers. “My birthday isn’t until tomorrow, and how did you know?”

“A little birdie told me.”

“Huh.” Pete looked at the stick. The corners of his mouth began to turn upward. “What is it?”

“Put it into the comm. Or,” Patrick suggested hastily, “you can do it when you go back to your room. Maybe that’s better.”

“No way, now I’m all curious.” Pete rolled his chair over to Patrick’s comm unit and started fiddling with it. Patrick sat on the bed and tried not to freak out. It was dumb, his brain decided, why did he think that this was a good gift idea?

A moment later, music poured out of the comm’s speaker. Patrick had talked Brendon out of the guitar he kept stashed in his room (and had sworn him to a rare week of secret-keeping). It had been forever since he’d played a guitar, but after a few missed notes, the memories of old songs came flowing back. Those songs filled the room now - some songs that had been popular on the core planets back when Patrick had been regularly playing music, some songs his father had taught him, and even a couple of songs Patrick had written himself. One - the last one on the recording - he’d written hastily in a few hours, just a couple of days before. The lyrics talked about flying, and falling, and maybe they were kind of lame but the words that came out had reminded him of Pete …

… shit. He’d just written a love song, hadn’t he?

Pete didn’t speak while he listened. Patrick twisted his hands in his lap and just watched Pete’s face; he couldn’t properly interpret the expression, which looked either enthralled or shocked. And it was weird, hearing his own voice filling the room. It had been so long since he’d sang … except for Pete. Well, he was just singing for Pete now, wasn’t he? It was just more permanent. And that was a little frightening.

After the music drifted off, Pete stared at the comm for a long time. Finally, Patrick stood up and paced across the room. “I don’t know, I just thought that since you always asked me to sing for you, you might like …”

“Patrick?”

“What?”

“Holy shit.” Suddenly, Pete was on his feet and across the room. He grabbed Patrick’s face and pulled him into a messy kiss that lasted long enough for Patrick to melt into Pete’s body and grab his waist for support. When he pulled back, Pete kept Patrick’s face framed in his hands. “You gave me music.”

“Yeah, well, you always like when I sing for you.”

“Yeah, I do. I really do.” Pete pulled at the hem of Patrick’s shirt. “I also like it when you’re naked. You should be naked now.”

There was a light in Pete’s eyes that made Patrick’s breath catch. He was fucked. Totally, thoroughly fucked, in every way.

… including the physical, which Pete gleefully proved right then and there.

Later, laying sweaty and wrung out in bed, Pete crawled over and draped himself over Patrick’s chest. He rested his chin on Patrick’s shoulder and regarded him. Patrick had to inch backward a bit so his eyes didn’t cross from looking at Pete at such a strange angle. “So,” Patrick said, “you liked the music, then?”

“No, I despised it, I never want to hear you sing again.” Pete pinched him. “Of course I did. It’s amazing. There were a few songs I’ve never heard before. Did you write them?”

“A couple, yeah.”

“What about the last one? I loved that one.”

Patrick looked up at the ceiling. “No,” he lied. “It’s a song I remembered from a while back. I used to play it before I got my job with the company.”

“It’s amazing. You should sing it again.”

Patrick looked back down at him. “What, now? I think my voice is fucked. Your fault, remember?”

“Yeah, that was awesome.” Pete grinned and kissed the hollow of Patrick’s throat. “The moral of the story is that you have a great mouth, whether you’re singing or …”

Patrick grumbled and flipped Pete onto his back before he could finish the thought. As he kissed Pete silent, he valiantly ignored the voice in the back of his head that kept trying to break free with three words he was absolutely, positively not going to say aloud, not to Pete. Even if he kind of wanted to.

Fucked. He was so, so fucked.

 

 

Mikey was the comm tech on duty when a rare dispatch from company HQ came in. Patrick was asleep in his quarters; he woke up to the insistent buzz of his door alarm. When he opened the door, he blinked blearily in the light until a vague Mikey sort of shape coalesced in front of him. "Hey," Mikey said, "check your personal comm, you got a message from Gamma 6."

"It couldn't wait a couple of hours?" Patrick grumbled. Then he stiffened. "It's not my family, is it?"

"No, no," Mikey assured hastily. "It's good news ... I think."

"Huh."

When he closed the door again, he turned back to see Pete sitting up in bed, blinking blearily. "What's up?" he asked, yawning?

"I don't know. Mikey said he put a message through to me. Didn't say what it was, though."

"What could be important enough to wake us up at this hour?"

"It's after noon station time," Patrick pointed out.

"And we got off shift at six in the morning, what's your point?"

"The point is, it sounds important." Patrick moved over to his comm and punched in his access code.

To Patrick's shock, the address that popped up was from the Undersecretary's office - no, he realized, reading closer, it was directly from the Undersecretary himself. Patrick had only spoken to the man once in his life, when he was doing his initial job training on Gamma 6. The Undersecretary had come in to one of their orientation meetings to personally congratulate everyone on their employment and wish them luck - an impersonal conversation, nothing that would ever make Patrick think he'd get a personal message from the man. Yet, here it was. The message was short and sweet. _I have just been notified of the error in your last placement. I have reassigned you to an open communications position on Heron. I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused, and for the time it took to correct the mistake. A transport will arrive to collect you in one week._

Patrick reread the message four times before it sank in. He'd been reassigned. To Heron, Gamma 6's primary moon. It was almost as good as getting an assignment directly to the planet, or so everyone thought. Heron had breathable atmosphere. He'd be close enough to his family to hop a transport home for dinner after his shift, if he wanted. And Heron was close enough to the system's sun that the temperature never warranted so much as a heavy jacket. It was one of the most coveted assignments for any company employee. It was exactly what Patrick had wanted.

"What's up?" Pete asked. Patrick heard the blankets rustle behind him, followed by Pete's footsteps. "Something wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Um. Well." Patrick closed his eyes as Pete leaned over his shoulder. A moment later, he felt Pete retreat. "Yeah. That wasn't what I was expecting."

"Congratulations, I guess."

"Um. Wow." Patrick didn't turn around. He just stared at the screen blankly. "I mean, Heron … everyone wants a job on Heron. Open comm positions only come up once every few years."

“So, you’re going?”

“I guess. I’d be a fool not to.”

Patrick regretted the words the minute he said them. There was a brief silence. "Then that's great. I'm happy for you." Pete sounded anything but happy.

Patrick finally turned around to see Pete rummaging around on the floor for his clothes. "Hey, Pete ..."

"It's cool." Pete didn't look up. "I mean, we joke about nobody ever making it out of here alive, but really, you're only the third person I've ever seen get promoted from here. That's good, right?"

"Well ... yeah, I guess."

Pete finished pulling on his clothes and finally turned around. His blank stare made Patrick's stomach turn over. "Trust me," he said softly, "once you get home, this whole place will seem like a bad dream to you."

"Pete, I ..."

"I should go. I have work to do."

"You're not on shift for another four hours."

"I'm behind on paperwork."

"Pete ..."

Pete straightened his shoulders and fastened an obviously fake smile on his face. "No, really, Patrick. I'm happy for you. I know you wanted to go home."

When Pete disappeared through the door, Patrick was no longer sure what he actually wanted.

 

“Give him a few days,” Bebe advised as she and Patrick worked on inventory in the med bay supply closet. “Pete always gets stupid and dramatic when one of his affairs ends. But he always comes around in the end.”

“Maybe,” Patrick said doubtfully. For the last day and a half, Pete had been turning and walking the opposite direction every time he saw Patrick coming.

“Trust me. You should have seen him when he and Mikey first broke up. He sat up in the lounge for days, barely talking to anyone.”

Patrick sighed. “You’ll make sure he sleeps at some point, right?”

“I’ll attack him with a hypo-needle full of sedative, if necessary.” Bebe put an arm around Patrick’s waist and laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m gonna miss you, dollface.”

“Likewise.” He pulled Bebe in for a hug, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I hate starting new jobs, you know,” he said. “Trying to figure out where you fit in with new people, learning the unwritten rules, all of that. Quite frankly, this has been the easiest job I’ve had when it comes to all that.”

Bebe laughed. “I know what you mean. When I started, I was so used to having to prove myself - all the other places I worked, so many people assumed that because I was small and pretty, I couldn’t be a competent medic. I hated that trial period, working twice as hard to earn what little respect I could muster. I never had to do that here.” Bebe pulled back and shrugged. “I know people think this place is a nightmare, a punishment, but I wouldn’t work anywhere else.”

Patrick thought about that statement for the rest of the day. Clandestine was, by his count, the sixth assignment he’d been on. Prior to this job, the happiest he could remember being was on Elezed II, where the work had been kind of shitty, but the team he worked with had been close enough to go out drinking after every shift. He spent a lot of time on that job hung over, but the relationships made up for the problems the work had presented. Even there, though, he couldn’t remember anyone who hugged him goodbye before he left. They toasted him the last night of drinking, but no one had sought him out to say a personal goodbye.

He ended up in Gerard and Frank’s room after his shift that day, playing a video game on the giant console Gerard had somehow managed to bring to the station with him. “I built this thing back at my last job. Mikey and I had been separated to stations on opposite sides of the planet, and the people I worked with sucked.” Gerard made a face. “So, I spent all my free time scavenging parts from the electronics graveyard and building something to play the games Mikey and I used to play when we were kids. When we got reassigned here, I spent all my savings buying cargo space on the shuttle to take it with me.”

“Why?” Patrick asked.

“Because it meant something to me.” Gerard shrugged. “And because I wanted to play games with Mikey again.”

“And I just muscled my way into one of your games on your third night here,” Frank said cheerfully.

“Yeah. I hadn’t even worked with Frank yet,” Gerard told Patrick, “but he and Mikey worked a couple of shifts, and Mikey brought him back to my room one night. I was pissed. I was sorta in bad shape back then, and didn’t want to talk to anyone who wasn’t Mikey.”

“I wore you down.”

“You did. Motherfucker.”

Patrick looked away when Frank leaned over and nipped at Gerard’s ear. The weight in the pit of his stomach, which he’d been trying to ignore since his reassignment came, threatened to make him puke. Instead, he focused on the console screen and started killing blue aliens. It wasn’t as satisfying as he wanted it to be.

During a break in the game, Frank scooted closer to Patrick and punched him lightly in the shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re leaving.”

“Me either.”

“But it’ll be good, right?” Frank’s eyes searched Patrick’s face. “You’ll be near your family. That means a lot.”

“It does. My mom’s been sending me messages daily, talking about all the things that have changed, things she wants me to see. And I’ll get to eat her cooking again, which beats everything around here for sure.” Frank laughed, and Patrick managed a smile. “It’s going to be good.”

Patrick just wished he could convince himself of that.

 

Patrick worked the same shift as Pete for the next three days, because the universe - or Spencer - was perverse and liked to see him suffer, apparently. Pete didn't acknowledge his existence. Once upon a time, Patrick would have thought that would make it easier to leave, but every time Pete passed by his console without grinning or ruffling his hair or leaning down into Patrick's light, Patrick felt a little more ill. On the third day, Patrick waited until nearly the end of the shift before he cleared his throat. "Uh, Pete?"

Pete didn't look at him. "What?"

"I need to talk to you. When we're done here."

"I'm busy."

"It's important."

Patrick's console squawked, and he swore under his breath. He tapped a couple of buttons. "Fuck. Drill 7's giving me an error message. It says it's shut itself down."

Pete scowled. He turned to Frank, who coughed miserably into the sleeve of his jumpsuit. "Go get some sleep, man. I'll cover this."

"You're going out alone?" Patrick asked. "Isn't that against regulations?"

"Fuck regulations," Pete muttered. "Listen, 7 is a temperamental bitch. Most of the time, the errors we get from her are false alarms. Gotta check on them, though. It'll be a thirty minute walk, no more. I'll just go and check it out. If it turns out there's something really wrong, we can wake up Suarez or something."

"You sure?" Frank asked. He punctuated his statement with a sneeze. "The weather's shit out there today. The wind nearly blew us both off the transport, remember?"

"Seriously. I can strap myself in and do the damned job. Get the fuck out of here before you give us all the death plague."

Frank made a rude gesture, but he made his way to the exit as soon as he was done stowing his pressure suit. Pete put his own suit back on. Before he lifted the helmet over his head, Patrick waved at him. "Hey," he said quietly. "Be careful, okay?"

Pete closed his eyes. When he finally looked back at Patrick, his mouth twisted in an expression that wasn't quite a smile. "I'm always careful."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Pete was silent. For a moment, Patrick thought he was about to respond, but instead he just nodded and slipped his helmet on.

A few minutes later, Victoria wandered in and propped herself up between Travis and William. "You guys almost done? We're holding the poker game for you."

"Pete's out checking on 7. We need to stick around until he's back."

"Gotcha." She grinned at Patrick. "You joining us? Mikey wants one more shot at winning back his twenty credits from you before you go."

He grinned back. "He can certainly try."

They were in the middle of a conversation about the vid they'd all watched the night before when they were interrupted by the indignant shriek of the emergency alarm. The exit door slammed shut, and all four of them started shouting curses. Patrick punched a button on the comm. "Gabe? We just had a drill last month, you motherfucker."

"Not a drill," Gabe said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "We've got a breach in the building structure over in the kitchen storeroom. There was a landslide up on the hill, it blew some rocks over this way."

"Hard enough to breach the structure? Damn, that’s some wind."

"You're telling me. It might take us a little while to get it fixed, the wind's working against us. So just lock everything down and sit tight, I'll let you know when we're done."

After the connection cut out, Patrick stared at his console. "If the wind is that bad, Pete ..."

"He should be fine," William said. "He should be at the drill by now. Just call and tell him to stay put until the wind dies down a little."

Patrick punched in Drill 7's frequency. "Control to 7. Pete, you in there yet?" Silence. "Pete, come in, we're on lockdown."

There was no response. Patrick rubbed the back of his neck. "Give it a few minutes and try again," Victoria suggested.

Ten minutes later, there was still no response from Pete. Victoria, Travis, and William finally looked worried. "Maybe someone should go out and look for him?" William suggested.

"In this weather?" Travis frowned. "Dude, if the wind is bad enough to break through the building ..."

"... then Pete's probably in trouble," Patrick interrupted.

"We're trained for this sort of thing," Victoria said. "Severe weather rescue. I haven't had to do it in a real-life situation, though. Just simulations back in training. I can give it a shot, though, if we think it's necessary."

"Is your pressure suit in here?" William asked.

Victoria's face fell. "No. It's in storage."

"Is there any way we can get Gabe to open the door long enough for you to go get it?" Patrick asked.

"Worth a shot." Victoria leaned over Patrick's console and punched the button. "Gabe, you there?"

It took a minute to get a reply. "Kinda busy here, Vic."

"Pete's missing outside. I need my suit to go find him. Can you unseal the door?"

"No can do. We've got the halls depressurized right now, diverting the electrical systems to our repairs. We open the door, you all lose your oxygen."

"Fuck." Victoria kicked the console before stepping away. "Whose suits are here? If Ryland or Suarez left theirs, I can probably make it work."

"Frank was the last one on shift," Patrick said.

"Dammit. God, I hope one of the other guys got lazy and didn't put their suit in storage after their last shift."

Patrick hoped, too. But when she emerged from the alcove a minute later, her frown told him all he needed to know. "There's no way in hell I can fit into Frank's suit," she said. "He's half my height."

"I have some basic planet walk training," Travis said, "but ..." He gestured at his own body. "Only if I cut myself off at the knees."

"Pete's probably all right," William said. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "The comm at Drill 7 is always on the fritz. I bet Pete made it there, but doesn't have any way of talking to us. He's probably hunkered down inside until the storm blows over. It's not like this is his first planet walk. He knows emergency procedures."

"Emergency procedure," Patrick reminded him, "states that if a walker misses three check-ins, another walker needs to go check on him."

"We just established that we can't do that," Victoria said.

Patrick reached out to flick the buttons on his console; as he pressed the sequence for Drill 7's comm system, he saw his hands shaking. He focused his gaze on the console in front of him. If he looked at anyone else, he thought, he might end up getting sick all over the floor. "We can," he said softly. "I ... I can fit into Frank's suit." The words came out in a rush - if he didn't say them right then, he knew he'd never have the nerve again.

There was a storm raging outside - a storm wild enough to have damaged the building's reinforced structure. It was bitterly cold, there was no breathable oxygen, and Patrick had just volunteered to do his very first planet walk. He wanted to take it back the minute the statement left his mouth. Outside? Him? It was madness. He'd probably end up getting himself killed no more than five steps outside the door. Just the thought of breathing the stale air inside the helmet made him woozy.

But Pete was out there. He could be hurt. He could be ... no, Patrick wasn't going to think about any worse options.

"Patrick?" Victoria said, her eyes wide. "Have you ever worked a suit before?"

"Yeah ... well, no, not on my own. Pete showed me how to work it, though."

"You've never been outside." Travis looked at him. "Are you sure?"

No. He wasn't sure at all. "Well ... yeah," he said slowly. "If Pete needs someone, it looks like I'm the only choice right now."

The other three looked at each other for a moment. Then, Victoria nodded. "Come over here. I'll give you the crash refresher course."

She spoke quickly as she helped him buckle into the pressure suit. "There's a transport parked just outside the door. It's easy to operate, just push the large center button and grip the sensors on the handle. The transport's navigation system will handle the rest. Just remember to punch in the sequence for Drill 7." She told him the numerical sequence, and made him repeat it back six times before she nodded at him. "With that, the transport will automatically take you to 7. It's designed for something like this, a storm in which we can't visually navigate ourselves. It normally takes about ten minutes to get out there, but with the wind, you'll want to go at half speed. Don't worry about your oxygen, you have plenty to get you there and back three times over. And in an emergency, there’s a canister stored inside the drill room that would give you enough to get back here. The instructions on how to use the canister are posted on the wall there, so you don't have to worry about remembering how to do that on top of everything else."

Patrick laughed weakly. "Thank god."

"You'll be fine. Trust me. Just get yourself out to the drill in one piece. If Pete's holed up in there, eating all the emergency rations, just punch him in the face for making us worry like this and try to wait it out with him. These storms don't usually last more than a couple of hours, so it should blow itself out soon." She came around to face him and handed him the helmet. "If Gabe gets his repairs done before you're back, I'll get my suit and come after both of you."

"Thanks, Vic. I ... I owe you."

"Bullshit." She shoved him lightly. "Put the fucking helmet on and go get our fearless leader."

Patrick took a long, deep breath and closed his eyes. If he chickened out and stayed inside now, if Pete turned out to be injured - or worse, but Patrick refused to think about that - Patrick would never forgive himself. He opened his eyes and slid the helmet over his head. “Seal me up.” His voice sounded muffled, even to himself.

He heard the clicking that indicated Victoria had engaged the helmet seal. He felt her shove something - the emergency medical kit, probably, along with an extra canister of oxygen - into the pack on his back, followed by a pat on his shoulder. “I’m closing the airlock door now,” she said, her voice fed through the small speakers next to his ears. “Don’t forget, the wind is going to be brutal out there. Take it slow, and you’ll be fine. Good luck.”

Then she was gone, and Patrick had nowhere to go but outside.

 

When he pulled the outside door closed behind him, Patrick was struck by how quiet it seemed. Where was the wind? He couldn’t feel much of anything through the thick padding of the pressure suit. But, then he looked up and around and noticed that there was a shelter built around the door, stretching for about two meters. Once he stepped out to the edge of the shelter, it was a different story. He tentatively reached his arm out to test the wind, and found himself holding his arm taut against a push that felt almost like someone slapping him. He swallowed hard. It wasn’t like he was a big guy, he thought - what if he fell over and couldn’t get back up?

“You can do this,” he muttered to himself. “Really, you can do this.”

He took his first step outside the shelter - and stumbled, only keeping himself upright by reaching out and bracing himself against the corner of the shelter. He stopped for a moment and spread his feet far enough from each other that he felt like he had a solid stance. He looked ahead - the transport vehicle was parked just a few meters ahead. “One step at a time,” he said aloud. “One step isn’t so bad.”

It wasn’t. Neither was two steps. He knew he probably looked ridiculous, taking what felt like tiny baby steps with his legs that far apart. Luckily, no one was watching him, and style didn’t count. As long as he made it to the transport without blowing away, nothing else mattered. Patrick didn’t count his steps, so he was almost surprised when he reached out and grabbed the handlebar of the transport. He pulled himself up onto the transport and spent a moment staring at the controls before Victoria’s instructions came back to him. He punched in the sequence for Drill 7 and grabbed the handles just before the vehicle lurched into motion.

The planet’s landscape was a lot rockier than Patrick expected. He bounced around in the seat so hard that he bit his tongue. Cursing, he clamped his jaw shut, tightened his legs around the transport seat, and held on for dear life. Eventually, he got up the nerve to look up and out at the land around him. He could see the drill silo in the distance, getting larger at a slow - too slow - pace. He didn’t see any dark patches on the ground ahead of him, which he considered a good sign; Pete was probably not wrecked out in the middle of the storm.

Unless he was buried in snow already. Patrick dismissed that thought as soon as it occurred to him.

When Patrick arrived at the drill, all he could hear was the wind howling around him. He figured he should hear the drill, even over the storm – the machine was probably two stories tall above ground, and stretched at least twice as far under the ground. Patrick had seen drills like this before on other planets, and they made enough of a racket to hear from a half mile away. This one was eerily quiet, even after he turned up the volume inside his helmet. He frowned and climbed off the transport.

He resumed his slow bow-legged walk, making sure one foot was firmly planted in the snow before taking another step. Soon, he arrived at another transport, haphazardly parked near the door to the drill's maintenance cabin. Patrick stopped to look at it. It didn't look like it had crashed, and a quick test of the controls proved it was still functional. Pete apparently just parked very quickly, without bothering to aim for the space designated in front of the door. Patrick wasn't terribly surprised. He was, however, relieved to not have encountered Pete in a frozen lump anywhere on his trip.

He made his way to the metal door, which stood twice as tall as Patrick did. Luckily, he already knew the code to open it – he was in charge of changing it once a month, and also had to listen to the planet walkers bitch every time they had to memorize a new one. The codes had only changed the week before, so the number was fresh in Patrick's mind. He punched the code into the number pad; the door gave an audible groan before swinging open. Patrick stepped inside the airlock and pushed the door closed. He breathed a small smile of relief. One more door, and he could take off his damned helmet. Hopefully. If the life support was functional. His sigh turned into a choked gasp, and he coughed inside his helmet.

Only one way to find out. He walked over to the control panel next to the inner door. It lit up when he hit the power button – a good sign. However, when he keyed in the sequence that should repressurize the airlock, the screen remained blank. "Oh no," he muttered, "don't do this to me, for fuck's sake don't do this to me." He keyed in the sequence again. Still nothing. Patrick could feel a bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. If he couldn't repressurize the airlock, he couldn't get into the main drill control room. He wondered, a little desperately, if he could figure out how to take the pack off his back without taking off the helmet, just in case he needed the extra oxygen tank. Victoria hadn't actually shown him how to do that.

But, he realized suddenly, if the controls to the airlock didn't work, chances were good that the life support inside the control room was also offline. Pete would either be existing on an emergency oxygen tank right now, or worse, if he'd had his helmet off when it failed. "Work, you stupid motherfucker," he muttered at the panel as he punched the same numbers for a third time.

There was a moment of silence – long enough for Patrick's heart to nearly leap out of his throat – before he heard the sweet, sweet sound of air blowing into the room.

The inner door opened more slowly than Patrick would have liked. The minute it was open far enough, he squeezed through and looked around the room.

He heard the cough before he noticed Pete. His voice was soft enough that Patrick had to strain to hear it inside his helmet. "Thank god. Frank, is that you?"

As the life support lights were still glowing a comforting green, Patrick quickly undid the seals on his helmet and pulled it off. When he turned toward the corner where the voice had come from, he swallowed a curse. Pete was huddled next to the heating vent, one leg stretched out awkwardly to the side. His pressure suit was ripped up the thigh, and the gray of the suit was marred by a disturbing patch of deep red. "What the hell happened? Are you okay?"

He was kneeling next to Pete before he looked up at his face. Pete was alarmingly pale, and his eyes were big enough to resemble giant black dots. "Patrick? Fuck, I'm hallucinating, I have to be dying."

"You're not hallucinating. I'm here. What happened to your leg?" Patrick shrugged the pack from his back. He removed his gloves and started digging through it for the medical kit.

"Patrick."

"Shit," Patrick muttered. "If your suit is ripped, I can't get you out of here. I wonder if I can get the comm back online, let Victoria know to bring a patch kit when she comes."

"Patrick." Patrick felt a faint pressure on his arm. He turned back to see Pete's hand laying on his forearm. "You're here," Pete murmured, his head falling back to rest against the wall. "You're really here."

Patrick nodded. "Yeah, Pete, I am."

Pete closed his eyes and dropped his hand. "The drill's offline," he said. "Something busted in the wind. I was outside, checking the sensors up on the second level when the fucking wind knocked me back on my ass. I got my leg caught between a couple of gears, tore the suit getting it unstuck. Managed to seal off my helmet and make it back in here on what air I had in my tubes. Of course, the fucking comm is down, couldn't call for help, and my leg gave out before I could get to the med kit on the wall." He laughed weakly. "I thought someone would show up a while ago. How long have I been out here?"

"Nearly an hour," Patrick admitted. "The station is under lockdown. The wind blew a hole in one of the cargo bays, Gabe and company are working on it. But the control room is sealed off, no one can get in and out."

"And I sent Frank away before I left," Pete remembered. "So he couldn't come out here to find me?"

"Nope. You're stuck with me."

Patrick pulled the rip in Pete's suit apart gingerly; from what he could tell, the gouge in Pete's leg went pretty deep. There was a puddle of blood underneath Pete's leg that caused Patrick to make a distressed noise in the back of his throat. He looked up and studied Pete's face. Pete reached up and grabbed the back of Patrick's neck in a weak grasp. "You came," he said. "You hate the outside."

"Still do." Patrick tried to smile at Pete. "I don't know how you idiots do this every day."

"But you came anyway. You came to find me."

"I was the only one who could. I was stuck in a control room with three giants and Frank's suit."

"But you're terrified."

Patrick felt his mouth twist into a scowl. "Thanks for reminding me, jackass, I was doing pretty well there for a little while."

Pete gripped Patrick's neck harder and tried to pull him closer. "Thank you," he whispered, staring at Patrick with impossibly dark eyes. "I didn't ... thank you."

Patrick swallowed, and on impulse leaned over and kissed Pete on the forehead. "Don't thank me yet, I don't know what the hell to do next."

"Drugs," Pete suggested. "Please. You have to have something in that kit, right?"

He did, in fact, and it was a relief to watch Pete relax against the wall as the painkiller kicked in. Patrick helped him sit up fully against the wall. Pete's eyes were fuzzy, but his complexion was starting to return to a semi-normal color, Patrick noted with relief. He bandaged the wound as best he could; he didn't want to rip the suit any further, to make it easier to patch when help arrived. (Help _would_ arrive, he swore to himself. He had to believe that.) He was afraid he'd never get the suit back onto Pete if he took it off, though, so he cleaned and dressed the wound as much as he could reach through the tear. Finally, he tied a tourniquet firmly around Pete's leg. "Ow," Pete said distantly. He looked down at the knotted fabric, then gave Patrick a dopey grin. "Hey, you know, we never did any of that."

"Any of what?"

Pete waved his hand vaguely at his leg. "Tying up. You and me. I have the toys and everything. We just never made it that far."

"What, you mean in bed?" Pete nodded drowsily. Patrick tried to dispel the images that popped into his head – they were markedly unhelpful when he was trying to concentrate on ... well, everything that clearly had to be done. "Tell you what," he said, tugging on one of the ends of the knot. "We get out of here alive, we can do whatever you want with whatever toys you want. You know, if you still want to."

"What do you mean, if I still want to?" Pete's eyes drifted shut for a moment. When he opened them again, he poked Patrick. "Never stopped wanting."

"Could've fooled me."

"You're leaving me."

Patrick frowned. "I didn't ..." He was interrupted by the whoop of an alarm. He jumped to his feet. "What the hell is that?"

"Generator warning." Pete's voice was suddenly ten times more alert. "The wind must have fucked something up with that, too. Motherfucker."

"What do I do? Pete, I don't know anything about the generators."

"Calm down. I can talk you through it."

"Are you good enough for that?" Patrick gestured at his leg.

"I'll have to be." Pete waved his hand towards the wall on the other side of the room. "Data panel and comm unit over there. The comm's busted, as usual, but the panel should still be operational enough to tell you where the problem is."

Patrick went to the panel and keyed in the commands as Pete instructed. "It's showing 50% power."

"There's definitely something broken. With the drill not working, there's no way it should have gone through power that fast."

"What can I do?" Patrick took a deep breath. "Do I have to go outside?"

"Yeah, probably. You'll need to check on the backup generator. If that's operational, we can just turn it on and wait out the storm. It's set for at least three hours of power."

"Hopefully the storm doesn't last another three hours."

"It shouldn't." But Pete's voice wasn't as sure as Patrick wanted it to be.

Patrick put his gloves back on, then looked at his helmet on the floor. "I hope I can re-seal that by myself."

"Come here." Pete patted the ground next to him. "I'm not that bad off, I can still help."

Patrick sat down and handed Pete the helmet. He turned around so his back was to Pete. "Put it on, I can get the front seal. I just need you to get the two in back."

Instead of the weight of the helmet, though, the next thing Patrick felt was warm breath on his neck. Pete's lips brushed lightly against the skin behind Patrick's ear. "Be careful," Pete said softly. Then he slid the helmet onto Patrick's head, and Patrick lost any sense of Pete or anything else around him.

"I checked the gauge back here," Pete said, his voice thin inside the helmet speakers. "You've got a good half hour of air left. Should be plenty of time to go out, boot the backup, and get back in here."

"Hopefully."

"It will." Pete gave him instructions on how to work the backup generator, then made Patrick repeat them back. "Okay, go," he said finally. "I'll just stay here and take a nap."

"Don't you dare." Patrick shook a gloved finger at him. "I still need you."

Pete gave him a lopsided smile. Patrick straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and steeled himself once again for the great outdoors.

The wind still howled outside at a speed that nearly flattened Patrick back against the door. He put one hand on the side of the building and began making his way around to the back. When he turned the second corner, he saw the two metal-covered domes that housed the generators. The larger one, which housed the main generator, had a square door hanging high off the side by one hinge, banging forcefully against the casing. It had to be the door used to lift heavy parts in and out of the dome, he figured. It was a testament to how loud the wind was that Patrick barely heard the clanging. Patrick looked as closely as he could from that distance, but couldn't see any immediate reason the door would have broken in the wind – there was no large handle protruding, no indication at all that that would stick out enough for the wind to easily pick up. Yet, it had, somehow – the wind was that strong. "Damn," Patrick said aloud. The backup generator was on the far side of the main one, so Patrick couldn't immediately see if there was any damage to that one.

He took his hand off the side of the building and took one step toward the generators. At that moment, the door came flying off its remaining hinge and barreled straight for Patrick.

Later, Patrick couldn't remember exactly how he'd gotten out of the way. One minute, he saw the door flying toward him; the next, he was face-down in the snow, over a meter away, and the door was nowhere to be seen. He must have jumped, he figured, and gotten an assist from the wind to move that far. Patrick sat up and stared in the direction the door had flown. The fact that it had missed both Patrick and the building was a minor miracle.

"Oh fuck," he breathed, wrapping his arms around his knees. "Oh fuck. Oh fuck."

It took a long couple of minutes before Patrick stopped shaking enough to push himself to his feet. The wind knocked him back over twice before he finally struggled to standing. He bent his knees to ground himself – which hurt, fuck, he was going to be bruised _everywhere_ tomorrow, provided he made it to tomorrow – and then started a slow shuffle to the backup generator.

He made himself walk all the way around the backup generator's dome. There was no immediately obvious damage to the structure, which had Patrick breathing easier for a brief moment. The entrance door was on the side nearest the main generator, and had a thankfully simple locking mechanism. It didn't take long for Patrick to get himself inside and out of the wind.

The dome was barely tall enough for Patrick to stand up straight in. He could only imagine how uncomfortable it must be for Victoria or Ryland to work in here. There was just enough room around the edge to walk around the generator's perimeter. A ladder was bolted to the side of the dome on either side of the generator; it curved with the ceiling to obviously allow someone to hang from the top rungs while making repairs. Patrick fervently hoped he had no reason to do so, as the wind was causing the metal dome to shake slightly around him. Besides, he'd have no idea what to do up there anyway. Pete had instructed him on how to turn the generator on, and that was it. If it didn't turn on, well, then he was fucked.

It didn't turn on.

Patrick repeated the sequence, just in case he'd done something wrong. In fact, he repeated it four times. Finally, he leaned back against the wall and lightly banged the back of his helmet against the metal. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

He circled the generator twice, looking at the machine even though he had no idea what he was looking at. Hoping for some kind of miraculous answer, he supposed. But after two circuits, he did some mental math and realized that his oxygen tank might possibly only have enough juice left to get him back into the main building. So, with another string of curses, he left the generator dome and made his way back through the storm.

Back inside, Pete stared at him hopefully as he fumbled with the seals on his helmet. When he was free, Patrick shook his head and resisted the urge to throw the helmet against the wall. "Backup won't work. I don't know why."

When Pete closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall without comment, a spark of concern flared in Patrick's chest. "Pete? Are you okay?"

"So tired," Pete muttered.

Patrick shrugged off his pack and gloves and knelt next to him. He inspected the bandage on Pete's leg. The bleeding had slowed, thank all the gods, but there was still far too much blood on the floor beneath him for Patrick to be anything but scared witless. He grabbed Pete's chin and shook him gently. "Stay with me, dude, I still need you."

Pete opened his eyes, but it looked like a struggle. "Right," he said, adjusting himself so he sat up a little straighter. "Gotta figure out how to take the power levels down in here. Maybe if we cut all non-essential functions, we can make the main generator last until someone comes to get us."

"What's non-essential?"

"Go back over there, read me the list of functions that are still online and working."

When Patrick logged back into the data panel, the power level read 40% in a bright, flashing red type. He swallowed his panic and read the function list to Pete. He turned back to Pete – his eyes were closed again, but thankfully his voice sounded clear when he began to speak. "Cut life support to the drill work rooms, we obviously don't need those right now. Cut the water, too. The drill's not running, so we don't need the cooling pipes. Take the lights down to 25%, we just need enough so you don't kill yourself walking around. And I guess you might as well cut the heat down to 25%, too."

Patrick frowned. "That's going to make it really fucking cold in here."

"If it makes you feel better, we'll suffocate long before we freeze to death."

"No, in fact, that doesn't make me feel better at all."

"Then think of it this way – if you don't cut the heat, we might run out of air. How's that?"

That, Patrick conceded, was a convincing argument. He made all the adjustments as Pete instructed, and was rewarded when the bright red "40% power" changed to a calmer yellow. "I think that worked," he told Pete.

"Hope so. There's not much more we can do."

Patrick crossed the room and slid down the wall next to Pete. Pete shifted to give him room between his body and the corner. Patrick noticed his wince when he moved. "How does that feel?" he asked, gesturing to Pete's leg.

"Fine."

"Bullshit." Patrick poked his arm. "Truth, asshole, I can't help if you don't tell me."

"Nothing you can do right now," Pete said, leaning some of his weight into Patrick's side. "It hurts like a motherfucker. I feel woozy. It's a problem, but there's nothing in your little kit that will do any more than you've already done. If someone doesn't come get us, I'm fucked."

Patrick put his arm around Pete's shoulders. Pete's head dropped to Patrick's chest. "They'll come for us," Patrick promised. He hoped he sounded convincing.

They sat like that for a while – how long, Patrick couldn't say, he started to lose track of time as the room lost heat. Pete became more and more limp, until he finally slid down and lay with his head in Patrick's lap. Every once in a while, Patrick said his name just to make sure his eyes opened, but those points got further and further apart. At some point, Patrick began to see his breath puff out in front of him, and he lost several minutes to watching the shapes the white tendrils made before they disappeared into the dim light.

"Patrick?"

Pete's voice was a surprise. Patrick looked down to see his eyes half-open. He was dangerously pale, and Patrick's heart lurched in his chest. "Yeah?"

"Don't leave me."

"I'm here. I don't exactly have anywhere else to go right now," Patrick pointed out.

Pete gave a violent shudder – from cold or injury, Patrick couldn't tell, but he slid down the wall enough that he could curl his body slightly around Pete's for extra warmth. Pete fisted a gloved hand in Patrick's suit. "No," he said, softly enough that Patrick had to strain to hear him. "Don't leave. After this. Stay here with me. I don't want ..."

Pete sucked in a shallow breath and started to cough. Patrick could only put a hand in his hair and try not to scream for help that wouldn't hear. Slowly, the coughing subsided, and Pete slumped back onto Patrick's legs. Patrick poked him, shook him, said his name over and over, but got no response. "Oh god," he breathed. Patrick tried to get his pulse, but even after having his gloves on, his fingers were still cold enough to be numb. Pete's chest continued to rise and fall very, very slowly, though, so Patrick pushed his panic back down to the pit of his stomach. "I'm not leaving, asshole. I hope you're listening. I'm not taking the job. I like my job here just fine. You know, when I get to stay inside where it's warm and there's air."

Pete didn't stir. Patrick tried to ignore the lump forming in his throat. "Fuck you," he said, "you're not allowed to die. This is all very dramatic, but I do not intend to be that person who watches his true love die in his arms, or whatever dumbass romance novel plans you're working on here."

Patrick leaned back on the wall and let his eyes close. He drifted off, until he wasn’t aware of anything other than the cold and Pete’s limp weight across his legs. The drumbeat of panic that had pounded behind his eyes for hours started to subside. Nothing to be done. Nothing he could do. Nowhere he could go. Maybe he should just go to sleep …

Some time passed. Maybe a minute, maybe an hour. Patrick didn’t realize the movement he felt wasn’t in his mind until a voice sounded next to his ear. “Patrick! Patrick, come on, wake up!”

The weight disappeared from his legs, and that brought Patrick out of his fog. He opened his eyes - a struggle he wasn’t expecting - to see Victoria’s face inches from his. “Thank god,” she said. “I could see you breathing, but for a minute there, I was afraid …”

“Pete?” His voice barely worked. “Pete, is he …”

“Alive,” Victoria said. Patrick looked beyond her to see Ryland crouching on the ground, struggling to put Pete’s helmet on his unconscious body. “He’s lost a lot of blood, though. We need to get him back. And you, too.”

“I’m fine.” Patrick pushed himself away from the wall, but when he tried to get his feet under him, he pitched forward. Only Victoria’s quick grasp kept him from face-planting into the floor.

“Careful. You probably have a touch of hypothermia. You both need to be back in med bay right now.” Patrick didn’t notice the hypo needle she carried until she jabbed him in the neck with it. “Sorry. Bebe’s orders. We’re gonna get you home now.”

Patrick allowed Victoria to haul him to his feet, and gratefully leaned on her as they made their way outside. The wind had died down to almost nothing - the landscape, Patrick noted as he sat in the medical cart Victoria was pulling behind her transport, was actually rather pretty in the bright sunlight. It had a pink tinge that he hadn’t noticed before, casting a rosy color on the mountains in the distance. This planet wasn’t nearly as ugly as he’d thought.

That was his last thought before the drugs Victoria had given him took effect. The bright world went dark.

 

Patrick woke up in the med bay. When he struggled to a sitting position, he saw Bebe stocking shelves across the room. She heard his movement and immediately crossed to his side. She worked the bed controls so that his back was supported. “Easy. You’ve only been out a few hours. I expected you to sleep longer.”

He groaned and rubbed his forehead. “My head is killing me.”

“Side effect of the treatment. Your hypothermia wasn’t the worst I’ve ever seen, but it still took a lot out of you.”

“Pete?” Patrick looked around the room. “Is he …”

“He’s okay.” But Bebe’s expression was serious. “Or, he’ll be okay. He’s back in the private recovery room. It’s lucky you got there when you did. If you hadn’t stemmed the bleeding …” She leaned over and kissed Patrick on his temple. “You’re a hero, dollface.”

“I don’t feel like much of a hero.”

“Trust me.” She patted his leg. “Rest. You need it.”

Patrick slept for most of the next day. When Bebe finally allowed him out of bed, he moved like a man of eighty. The black-and-blue tinge to most of his skin reminded him why. “Jesus,” he muttered, wincing as he bent his knees. “I forgot about the whole hitting-the-ground thing.”

His first destination was the private recovery room. Pete lay in the bed in the middle of the room, hooked up to several beeping machines. “He still needs transfusions every once in a while,” Bebe said from behind him. “I’m keeping him sedated until he’s a little farther along. But he’s going to be okay, I promise.” She tugged on Patrick’s arm. “Come on, out. I only let you out of bed since you promised to go back to your room and lay down. Get out of here.”

The minute he got to his bed, his door chimed. Gabe, Travis, and Greta shouldered their way into his room and steered him back to the bed. “You, down,” Greta ordered. “You look like you’re about to pass out again.”

“I was just about to when you guys showed up,” Patrick muttered.

“We came to make sure you don’t try to get up,” Travis announced. When Patrick was lying down, Greta draped herself across the foot of the bed, and Gabe and Travis sat themselves in the chairs next to him. “So we’re going to keep you company until you fall asleep.”

Patrick drifted off in the middle of an argument about whether Gabe could show porn in the lounge for his birthday party. When he woke up again, Travis was the only one left, reading something on a data pad. “You don’t have to babysit me,” Patrick said. “I’m sure you have other things to do.”

“Nah. I stay in here, I avoid Singer trying to pawn off kitchen duty on everyone who walks past.” Travis grinned and held up the pad. “Want me to read you some trashy gossip from Gamma 6? That trashy vid star - you know, the one in that movie Mikey loves so much - apparently broke up a politician’s marriage.”

Patrick smiled. “Yeah, sure, let’s hear it.”

 

A day later, Spencer poked his head into Patrick’s room. “Hey,” he said. “Um, we all sorta forgot what day it is. The transport is here for you.”

Patrick blinked. The transport - the one scheduled to take him to Heron. To take him home.

Spencer went on without waiting for a response. “Obviously, the pilot missed the news about your adventures. Don’t know how, apparently it’s all over the company news wires. By the way, if you haven’t already, send a message to your mom. I’ve talked to her twice already, but she’s getting impatient.” Patrick grimaced, but Spencer waved a hand at him. “Don’t worry, she understands. Anyway, if you want me to, I’ll tell him to come back next week. The company will pay for it, I checked. They don’t want to move you unless you’re ready.”

Patrick closed his eyes. He still felt cold most of the time, even though the heat in his room was turned up nearly as high as it would go. Last night, he’d dreamed about being back out in that control room, with Pete at his feet. This time, though, Pete was dead, and Patrick was stuck sitting there and staring at him. He’d woken up in a sweat, and made his way down to the med bay to look in on a still-unconscious Pete. The machines beeped a heart rate, which calmed Patrick considerably.

If he waited for a week, Pete would probably be conscious. Patrick could say goodbye to him before he left.

Just the thought made Patrick want to vomit.

“Tell him to go away,” he said to Spencer.

“Okay, I’ll have him come back in a week.”

“No.” Spencer furrowed his brow, but something inside Patrick’s chest had loosened for the first time in over a week. “Tell him not to come back at all. I’m not going.”

Spencer’s answering smile made Patrick feel better than any of Bebe’s drugs.

 

A little while later, Patrick hauled himself over to his comm and sent a message to the Undersecretary.

 _Thank you for your kind offer of employment on Heron. I know how much jobs on that station are valued, and I’m humbled to know my work has meant that much to the company. However, I am happy with my continued employment on Clandestine Station, and will be staying in this position for the foreseeable future._

He went back to sleep with a smile on his face.

 

Patrick didn’t get to see Pete when he woke up - Bebe kicked everyone out of the med bay and threatened to enforce the company’s policy of requiring annual physicals for every employee. “Unless you want me to start sticking my fingers in uncomfortable places,” she said, “you all will stay the fuck out.”

She softened a little bit when Patrick asked, but remained firm. “I promise, you’ll be the first to know when he can have visitors,” she said. “But he’s a little shit when it comes to being a patient, and I don’t want him doing anything to break his stitches or impede his recovery in any way. So I’m keeping him quarantined until I’m tempted to kill him.”

Patrick went back to work the next day. Spencer tried to argue with him, but Patrick waved him off. “I’m going to go crazy sitting around,” Patrick said. “Put me to work. I sit in a chair, no big deal.”

“Yeah, that’s what we used to think,” Spencer grumbled, but he let Patrick go to the control room and relieve Alex for half a shift.

Two days later, he left his shift to find Pete sitting in front of his door, looking pale and shaky. Patrick rushed over to him. “What the hell are you doing here? Does Bebe know you’re out of bed?”

“I staged a jailbreak. The warden is none the wiser,” Pete said. He grabbed Patrick’s arm. “Help me up.”

“I’m taking you back.”

“No, don’t.” When Pete was on his feet, he squeezed Patrick’s arm tightly. “Let me inside. I want to talk to you.”

“We can talk in the med bay. Seriously, Pete, you could injure yourself.”

“I’m already injured. Fuck that.” Pete wedged himself between Patrick and the door. “Let me in. Please.”

Sighing, Patrick opened the door and helped Pete inside to a chair. Pete’s leg was stretched out stiffly in front of him; Patrick knew from seeing him before that it was wrapped in layers and layers of bandages and gauze. “You didn’t even take a pair of crutches or something?”

“Bebe hid them all. I just held onto the wall all the way here.”

“You’re insane.” Patrick sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore as fuck. Finally mostly drug-free, thank god, that shit was making me feel like I was floating three feet above the bed.” Pete shrugged. “Alive. Thanks to you.”

Patrick shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t mention it.”

“Fuck off.” Pete tried to lean forward, but the motion obviously pained him, so he leaned back. “You came for me. You’re fucking terrified of going outside, but you came after me. I don’t even know what to say to that. But don’t you dare play it off like that. I won’t let you.”

“Okay.” Patrick scrubbed a hand across his eyes and took a deep breath. “I just couldn’t stand the idea of you out there all alone. If you’d died while I just sat there, I never would have forgiven myself.”

“Fuck.” Pete covered his face with his hands. He let out a laugh that half sounded like a sob. When he dropped his hands, he visibly straightened his shoulders. “When do you leave?”

The question took Patrick by surprise. When he realized what it meant, he silently cursed Bebe for being a sadistic bitch. “I sent the shuttle away.”

“I know that. When does it come back?” Patrick opened his mouth to answer, but Pete cut him off. “Never mind. Don’t go. Please, for the love of god, don’t go.”

“Pete, I-”

“Listen, hear me out, please?” This time, Pete did lean forward, ignoring the pain that flashed in his eyes with the movement. “I love you. I should have told you a million times before this, I know. But I do. I love you, you stupid motherfucker, and it will kill me if you go, because I know I’ll never see you again. I can’t even think about that.”

A warmth spread through Patrick’s chest. He opened his mouth again, but Pete wouldn’t let him talk. “If I was stronger, I’d totally hold you down and make you stay in this room until you said you wouldn’t leave. I’m half tempted to ask Gabe to lock you in here, actually. I love you, and you came and fucking _rescued_ me, and I can’t live without you. I won’t.”

“Pete.” The flood of words finally stopped. Patrick slid off the bed and knelt on the floor in front of Pete’s chair. “I’m not leaving.”

“Don’t just say that to get me -”

“Pete. Shut up.” Patrick gently shoved Pete backward until he was leaning back in the chair again. “And don’t hurt yourself. I’m not going anywhere. I turned down the job.”

Finally, understanding dawned in Pete’s eyes. “You’re … you did? For real?”

“For real. I love you too, jackass.” Patrick stood up and leaned lightly on the arm of the chair. He bent over and kissed Pete lightly. “Now you’re going back to med bay before I call Bebe in here with a hypo needle.”

Pete grabbed Patrick’s arm. “I love you.”

“I heard you the first time.” But Patrick couldn’t wipe the giant smile from his face.

“Get used to hearing it.” Pete allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet. He wrapped an arm around Patrick’s waist and leaned his head against Patrick’s shoulder. “I’ll only go back if you promise to sing me a lullaby.”

Patrick just smiled and pulled him a little closer. “I promise.”

 

Somehow, Patrick’s staying-at-Clandestine party felt just as strange as his welcoming party. “Nothing’s happening,” he grumbled. “Why do we need a party?”

Travis shrugged. “It’s always good to have an excuse to watch our drunk coworkers make fools of themselves.”

“Okay, you have a point.”

“Also,” Gabe added, “We totally had a going away party planned before all hell broke loose. You owe us a celebration.”

“Because the storm was my fault?”

Gabe brandished a bottle of wine - from which he was drinking - at Patrick. “Don’t bring logic into this, motherfucker.”

Patrick spent most of the party trying to keep Pete in one place. “If you keel over and die,” he told Pete, “Bebe will throw me out the airlock.”

“I’m not gonna die. I’m just going to hurt a lot in the morning. Which really isn’t that different than usual after a party, if you think about it.” Pete punctuated his statement by standing up - then immediately sitting back down, groaning and rubbing his leg.

Patrick shook his head. “I should tie you to the chair.”

Pete brightened. “Hey, that reminds me. Unless I was hallucinating at the time, you totally made me a promise when I was dying.”

“What?” A moment later, Patrick remembered. He felt his face flush red. “I guess I did, didn’t I?”

“What kind of promise?” Brendon asked, walking up and draping himself over the arm of Pete’s chair.

“None of your business,” Patrick said.

“Something to do with tying up,” Greta, sitting a few feet away, supplied helpfully.

Brendon grinned. “Oooh! Who’s getting tied up?”

“Yet to be determined,” Pete said.

Patrick reached over and shoved Brendon off the chair. “Nobody, until someone can at least stand up without looking like he’s going to die.”

“Oooh, a goal.” Pete looked across the room. “Hey, Bebe!” he shouted over the conversational din.

A moment later, she appeared in front of them. “Yes, my gimpy friend?”

“What time do you have for physical therapy tomorrow?”

Bebe raised an eyebrow. “Who are you and what have you done with Pete? You told me earlier today that you didn’t need any stinking exercises, you could walk just fine.”

“And you told me I was going to have goddamned therapy if you had to hold a gun to my head. Besides,” Pete added, grinning at Patrick, “now I have incentive.”

Patrick covered his face with his hands as Brendon and Greta laughed. “I don’t want to know,” Bebe decided. “But get your ass into med bay at nine tomorrow morning.”

Pete groaned. “That early?”

“You asked. Be there.”

“Fucking slavedriver,” Pete muttered. Bebe just smiled at him. She leaned over and gave Patrick a quick kiss on the temple before she wandered off again.

Pete and Brendon began to argue about an upcoming movie night; Patrick was content to lean against Pete’s shoulder and study the room. In the other corner, Gabe and Mikey were conversing with wild gestures, while Carden looked on with an amused expression. Travis played bartender at the table in the corner of the room, which was low enough to make Travis look like he stood behind a kiddie table. Frank and Ray sat on the floor next to the door; when Gerard walked in a few minutes later, Frank tugged him down to sit next to him. Gerard sprawled in front of the door, where Spencer nearly stepped on him when he came in. Frank howled with laughter. _Home_ , he thought. “Who knew?” he murmured aloud.

“Who knew what?” Pete asked.

Patrick just smiled. “Never mind.”


End file.
